12th of Never (Womens Murder Club 12) (10 page)

I left Brady, went down the fire stairs and out the back of the Hall, then took the breezeway to the ME’s office. The receptionist’s voice came over Claire’s intercom as I passed through her open office door.

“Dr. Washburn? Sergeant Boxer just bulled her way past me.”

Claire was stuffing files into a cardboard box. She had another box on her desk already full of personal items—doodads and her diploma, awards certificates and framed photos.

A picture of the Women’s Murder Club was on top of one of the boxes—Claire, Yuki, and Cindy looking bright and cheery; me, the tallest one in the group, brooding about something or other. As usual.

“What is this?” I said, indicating the packing. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been benched,” Claire said. “Haven’t you heard?”

She looked awful—scared and mad and like she’d been kicked in the gut. I stretched out my arms and she came from around her desk and we hugged. A long minute later, I dropped into the side chair and Claire went back behind her desk. She put her feet up next to the phone.

All eight buttons on the phone console were blinking.

Claire drew a long sigh, then told me, “The city administrator said, and I quote, ‘You may occupy your office for now, but I’m relieving you of your command.’”

“I didn’t know Carter was in the military.”

“He’s a World War Two buff. That jerk. My access to my computer is blocked. Sheila is taking my calls out front, and it’s just as well. Ninety-nine out of a hundred calls are from the tabloids. And then there are the calls from next of kin wanting to check that their loved ones hadn’t been sold to body shops for spare parts.”

“This is so wrong.”

“When Dr. Morse arrives, I’m supposed to give him administrative assistance until—”

“Dr. Morse?”

“Retired ME from Orange County. Last time he held a scalpel was in 2003. I don’t know if he can even manage the paperwork, let alone the actual job. Anyway. He can have my desk,” Claire said with a sigh, “until we find Faye Farmer’s body.”

“What’s your gut say happened to her?”

“My guts are, like, taking Lombard Street at ninety miles per hour, at night, without headlights—and no brakes, either. So I’m not consulting my gut.

“But listen, Lindsay. I do have an idea who could have had something to do with it.”

“TAKE A LOOK at this.”

Claire handed me a manila folder with a name printed on the tab: Tracey Pendleton.

There was a photo stapled to the top sheet of Tracey Pendleton’s employment records. She had short gray hair and her face was plain, without a single distinguishing feature. Her DOB said that she was in her late thirties, but she looked fifty. She probably smoked and drank, might have had drugs in her past.

The word
Hired
was stamped on the first page, as was the date—August 23, 2009. Reading further, I learned that Ms. Pendleton had a license to carry a weapon, owned a registered 9mm Glock semiauto, and was employed as a security guard for the ME’s office.

I flipped through her time sheets.

Tracey Pendleton worked nights—including last night.

Claire was watching me, and when I looked up, she said, “Tracey clocked in at twelve oh two. She didn’t punch out.”

“You’ve called her?”

“Every ten minutes. No answer. I also texted her and sent her a bunch of e-mails. No answer to those, either.”

“Tell me what you know about her,” I said.

I teed up the question, but my mind was already racing ahead. Had Tracey Pendleton stolen Faye Farmer’s body? If so, what was her motive?

“I don’t know her at all,” Claire said. “Our schedules only overlap if I come in way early or I’m working way late. And even then, it’s ‘Hey, how ya doing?’”

“When was the last time you saw Pendleton?”

“A couple of weeks ago. She seemed okay to me, Lindsay. But when I look at her, I’m just looking to see if she’s sober. She failed to show up for work a couple of times and was on warning. But not showing up and not punching out are two different things entirely.”

I asked, “She just forgot to punch out?”

Claire shrugged.

“It would be the first time. The time clock is right there at the back door.”

“Okay. Could she have taken the surveillance disk, switched the John Doe for Faye Farmer, and gotten Farmer’s body into her car? Is she strong enough to do that?”

“I think it’s physically possible.”

“You think someone could’ve paid Pendleton for the body?” I asked.

“They say everyone has a price,” said Claire. “Tracey Pendleton makes fifteen dollars an hour. I guess her tipping point wouldn’t be too high.”

FLOYD MESERVE WAS clean-shaven, neatly dressed, his hair in a ponytail short enough to reveal the tattoo of a naked woman just above his collar.

Yuki approached her witness and said, “Lieutenant Meserve, what is your job title?”

“Lieutenant, Crimes Against Persons Division, Northern District, SFPD.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“Yes. I met with him on February twentieth of last year.”

“What were the circumstances of your meeting?”

The jurors were attentive, some of them leaning forward in their seats. The gallery was still. Yuki was absolutely sure there would be no surprises with Floyd Meserve.

“I was working undercover at the time,” said Meserve. “One of my CIs told me that a lawyer was looking for a hit man. I told him that I could pose as such.”

“Did this confidential informant give your contact number to the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“And did the defendant contact you?”

“Yes, the same day. We set up a meeting.”

“When did you meet the defendant?”

“I met the defendant in a parking lot outside the Westlake Shopping Center on Southgate Avenue at five in the evening. We each drove there in our own vehicle. The defendant wanted me to talk to him inside his car, but I told him I don’t do that. He had to get into my vehicle.”

“And why did you want him to get into your vehicle?”

“I had a video recorder set up.”

“I see. So did Mr. Herman get into your car?”

“Yes. He got straight to the point.”

“What did he say?” Yuki asked.

“He said he wanted me to dispose of his wife because she was abusing their daughter. And he said he wanted me to kill his daughter, too, because he said his wife had ruined her.”

“He wanted you to kill a seven-year-old?”

“That’s what he said.”

“And what did you say to this proposition?”

“I asked him if he was sure. He said he had thought about it for a long time. So I told him it would cost him a lot to take out a woman and a child.”

“Was a dollar amount discussed?” Yuki asked.

“We negotiated the price of one hundred thousand for both people. Half down, half after proof of the hits.”

“Did your recording equipment capture this conversation?”

“Yes, it did.”

Yuki said, “Your Honor, I’d like to show the video to the jury.”

“You have the transcript?” the judge asked.

“Right here, Your Honor.”

“I’ll take that, and if you would give a copy to the defense, you may roll the video.”

NICKY GAINES TAPPED on his keyboard and, after a couple of fumbles, the video projected onto the monitor in the courtroom. Yuki watched along with the jury as the time-and date-stamped recording started with Keith Herman getting into the undercover cop’s car.

Oh, man
, Yuki thought.
No way Kinsela could discredit this
.

The images were black-and-white, medium quality, shot from the window on the driver’s side. The angle was across Meserve’s lap, and it took in Keith Herman’s face and upper torso. Herman had been bearded when the film was shot, and he had worn a blue baseball cap.

On video, Floyd Meserve told Keith Herman that his name was Chester, then he listened as Keith Herman said, “My wife is mentally ill—schizophrenic, you know? She’s sweet as pie, then she turns on a dime. She beats our little girl for no reason, and abuses her in other ways you don’t need to know, but my little girl has also turned mental. I mean psycho. I don’t want her to go through the hell of being a mental case for her whole life. Or being drugged to the gills, either. It’s a crying shame.”

Meserve said, “You thought of getting a divorce? Filing for custody of the child?”

“Many times, but my wife is foxy. She’ll take everything, including the kid, and leave me broken and ruined. No. This is the best way. I want it to be quick, you know? Shots to their heads. No fear, no pain. Make it look like a robbery. Take my wife’s ring. It’s worth a ton. It cost thirty grand. I don’t know what you can get for it, but it’s a good bonus, anyways.”

Meserve, a.k.a. Chester, said that he needed pictures of the wife and child, ten thousand dollars as a down payment, and that the client had to furnish the gun.

Keith Herman agreed to the terms and agreed to meet Chester in twenty-four hours—“same time and place, and I’ll bring the stuff.”

The video brightened as Herman opened the door and got out of the car. When he was alone, Meserve spoke through his microphone to the cops in the surveillance van. “Did everything come in clear?”

The screen went dark and the lights came up in the courtroom. Yuki stood beside her witness and said, “Lieutenant Meserve, did you meet with this man again to receive the down payment and photos?”

“I was there, but he failed to show,” Meserve said. “Later that day, my snitch informed me that someone had ratted me out. The deal was blown and so was my cover.”

“Did you have enough to charge the suspect?”

“I didn’t have his full name, so I couldn’t do anything but sweat. Even if I’d known him, no money changed hands, which woulda made an indictment impossible.”

“Did you believe that he intended to have his wife and child murdered?”

“Without a doubt.”

“That’s all I have, Your Honor,” Yuki said.

John Kinsela’s expression was unreadable, but he revealed his agitation by jingling the coins in his pockets.

He said, “Lieutenant Meserve, you didn’t know the defendant’s name. He didn’t give you any money or pictures of the targets, and he didn’t give you a gun?”

“No.”

“So he hadn’t committed any crime?”

“That’s correct.”

“And you don’t know if he was looking for a hit man or if he was trying on an idea he never intended to go through with, or even if the man in your vehicle was my client.”

“Objection. What is counsel doing, Your Honor? He seems to be arguing his case, not questioning the witness.”

“Sustained. Stop doing that, Mr. Kinsela, or you will be fined.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I don’t have any other questions. This witness has completely satisfied my curiosity.”

“Ms. Castellano. Redirect?”

Yuki stood and addressed the witness from her table.

“Lieutenant Meserve, when did you learn the full name of the man who tried to hire you to kill his wife and daughter?”

“On March first of last year, when Jennifer Herman’s dismembered body was discovered.”

“The man who contacted you about two weeks earlier, on February twentieth, and ordered a hit on his wife and child: Is he sitting in this courtroom?”

“Yes.”

“Will you point him out?”

Keith Herman showed no emotion as Meserve pointed a finger at him as if it were a loaded gun.

“The defendant. That’s him. I’m positive.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. You may step down.”

AFTER THE UNDERCOVER cop stood down, Yuki introduced Lesley Rohan, a strikingly attractive and wealthy friend of Jennifer Herman’s, who told the court that Jennifer had been afraid of her husband.

“Jennifer was sitting at my dining table, shaking her head and crying. She told me that if anything happened to her, I should call the police and tell them that Keith did it,” said Rohan. “Jennifer’s arms were bruised and she had a black eye. I suspected for a long time that Keith was abusing both Jennifer and Lily.”

“Objection,” said Kinsela. “Speculation, Your Honor.”

The judge said to the court reporter, “Ms. Gray, please strike the witness’s last sentence. Thank you. Just tell what you know, Ms. Rohan. Not what you think.”

“I’m sorry, Judge Nussbaum.”

“Please go on, Ms. Castellano.”

Yuki said, “Ms. Rohan, did Jennifer ask you to do some-thing for her?”

“Yes. She asked me to take pictures of her and keep them safe.”

“Your Honor, I’d like to introduce these photos of Jennifer Herman, dated February fourth of last year.”

After the pictures were entered into evidence and Yuki was sitting at the prosecution table, Kinsela addressed Ms. Rohan.

“Do you know for a fact that those bruises were put there by Keith Herman?”

“Jennifer told me he did it.”

“But do you
know
that Mr. Herman inflicted those bruises on Jennifer? You didn’t see him do it, did you?”

The witness squinted. She looked like she’d been struck across the face.

“No. But why would Jennifer lie?”

Kinsela said, “We just don’t know. Do we?”

Yuki called Ty Crandall from the sanitation department, who told the jury about finding the bags of human remains and that ever since he found them he no longer could sleep through the night. Although he was healthy, he had resigned from the city at half pension.

Kinsela had no questions for the sanitation man.

Forensic pathologist Dr. Roy Barclay testified that he had examined the body parts that had been parceled into the eight construction-grade garbage bags. He said that the parts were conclusively from the body of Jennifer Herman.

Barclay told the jury that he had determined the cause of death to be a bullet fired through the left eye at close range, the manner of death to be homicide, and that the time of death would have been within eight hours of the discovery of the parts. He sent the bullet to his ballistics department.